The Other One
by IvyIcy
Summary: Harry's twin comes out of the woodwork, along with many other things. It seems that the Real Harry Potter is someone else. Harry is sidelined in the war against voldermort. Hopefully angsty, dark, betrayed, etc. No slash.
1. Chapter One

  
A/N Sorry it's short. This is my first fic. Please review/flame/whatever. Oh, and I know where this fic is going, btw. (and _no_, it's not anywhere nasty like a horse's rear end, heavy twincest or SB/RL/JP action). Harry's twin comes in later.  
  
Disclaimer: _Don't own nuthin'. JK Rowling, Bloomsburg, Warner Bros and others own all. I ain't making money outta this, either. Oh, this is an amalgamation of my fav fics (eventually). As such, **nothing** is original. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, &tc._

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Chapter 1 - Post  
  
Harry glanced up at the owl heading towards him. It wasn't Hedwig; she was out, delivering the every-third-day letter to Dumbledore, Moody et al, reassuring them of his continued survival. 

No, it was something else entirely. The bird swooped in, dropped a thick, brown letter, and soared out the window again before he could react.

Harry put down the book he had been reading and headed to the window, staring out. He couldn't see anything. The bird was already gone. Now he examined the brown envelope. Harry had become a lot warier these past few weeks.

As soon as he had returned from school, he had made a resolution, and followed it with dogged Gryffindor determination. In his isolation at the Dursleys, free from outside stimuli, his grieving mind had decided that, in all reality, he had only himself to blame for Sirius' death.

Who had run off to the Ministry without a second thought? Without a moment's logic? He'd blundered right into it, hadn't even thought of the mirror, or Snape, or even checking on Sirius until Hermione suggested it. He'd gotten Sirius killed as a result. It could have been worse. He could have got his friends killed too.

Now, he decided that he wouldn't let this happen again. He'd make sure he'd be able to fight Voldermort next time, and he wouldn't stumble into a trap blindly. He'd get his revenge, on Voldermort, on Bellatrix, and on all the Death Eaters for what they'd done.

He'd stayed in his room most of the holidays so far, rarely venturing out. The Dursleys hadn't bothered him. These days (after the Dementors) Dudley was an unusually sensitive boy, who listened to Sudanese Water Music, and dried flowers, and asked Harry 'if he, you know, wanted to talk.' Harry had declined, politely, although giving Dudley a few encouraging words. He personally thought that a cowed Dudley Dursley was something unnatural and wrong in the order of things, and it disturbed him how great a power the Dementors had.

So now, he bent over to pick up this letter, and he was wary. He'd read through a lot of defence books already. One, given him by Remus, had a particular emphasis on the dark arts, and not all negative towards it, either.

It couldn't be his owls, not this early, nor any birthday greetings. His friends had all been advised to keep their post to him minimal, as information leakage could be dire. Or so he'd been told in their last letters to him, three weeks ago.

So what? Was it dark magic? Maybe someone trying to hex him. You could send all kinds of curses in the mail – Howlers were on the lighter side of such things, in fact. Perhaps –

He ran a finger along the edge of the envelope, almost stroking it. Suddenly, in the quiet of the night, he heard a faint scratching. It was coming from within the envelope. There was an insidious hiss, and Harry's mind jolted with realisation. He dropped the envelope like a hot coal, and leapt back, but it was too late.

The thing's hissing exploded in a rush of smoke. Brown shreds flew about the room. Harry brought his wand up as something materialised in the centre of the room. Oh great. A curse was one thing. A curse couldn't hit you unless you tried to open the envelope. Hexes could be avoided, you only had to shove the post under a brick, the bed, or toss it on the fire.

But a golem was another thing. The giant clay _thing_ swung its heavy head to look at him. Its eyes caught his; they gleamed. Roughly shaped limbs tensed. Its shoulders shifted, potter's wheels in fast forward. Slime, wet, muddy slime, dripped over its lips.

Harry held up his wand. It was useless. Magic was obsolete against the great skin (clay? Soil?) of the golem.

It moved towards him slowly. Harry backed up, but it didn't matter. The golem didn't need to rush. It was between him and the door.

The only way to truly destroy a golem, Harry knew –

It sprung at him, and Harry dived and rolled sideways over his bed. A gash opened up on his arm, where its claws had caught him.

- Was to bury it – seal it in a cave somewhere or smash it to bits, and make sure those bits were on different sides of the world.

He could send curses at the ceiling he supposed, make it collapse on the golem. But that would probably kill him too.

The golem again charged at him. Stalling, Harry levitated a cupboard, and smashed it over the thing. Unfortunately, this would only temporarily stop it, and the Dursleys hadn't been very generous in the way of furniture for Harry's room.

He looked around, thought of jumping out the window. If only he had his broom. It was propped elegantly against the window... unreachable.

"_Accio_!"

The golem lunged as the broomstick flew through the air, at it, not Harry, as it took him a second to realise. The broomstick narrowly avoided being smashed to pieces, and clattered back to its place by the window.

The golem rounded on harry. Its eyes had a red sheen. It moved in for the kill.

Nervously, harry took a step back.

And realised he was up against a corner... Between a rock – er – clay and a hard place.

His wand hand grew sweaty. He fantasised about apparating away, wandless magic whisking him to safety.

Sadly, wandless magic doesn't just happen when you make a wish for it.

"_Stupefy. STUPEFY_!" Harry tried helplessly.

How was it going to kill him? Oh, of course, the thing ripped your eyes out. He'd read it in the Curse book.

"_Expelliarmus_. Er – _impedimento_!"

Come on, what was a spell that would have an effect on the creature? Burning, freezing... almost everything that worked usually on living things didn't work on this creauture of dust and clay. But it was living. Oh yes, alive enough to kill.

What spell?

It came to him.

Harry held up his wand, and in a biting voice, snapped, "Avada Kedavra!"

The Death Curse. Only requirements for it to be effective were the State of living.

The life force of the golem went away, perhaps behind a black veil, or perhaps behind a brighter curtain, where the kiln burns too hot. _Even_ for clay.

Harry was surprised it worked. Even more surprised that he wasn't currently contemplating sucking unicorn blood or drinking snake's milk.

In fact, murder was, in some cases, the reasonable thing to do. Harry shook his head, disgusted at the coldness of this impartial _Slytherin_ logic. He took a step forward, departing from reasonable thought.

For one, he should have realised that a clay sculpture, leaning forward in a Death Lunge, is going to obey the laws of gravity eventually. It landed right on top of him, and first green spots, then gentle yellow and purple waves, and finally, irrevocable darkness embraced him.

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Please PLEASE review! I know it's short, I know that a golem-mail is unreasonable, but I didn't want a genie. 


	2. Chapter Two

Harry opened his eyes. He felt as though someone was plunging a needle through his brain. His head killed. Rolling over, he tried to remember what happened. At first it was just a haze, but gradually, as his head began to clear, the letter, and the golem came to mind.

Abruptly he stood up and looked around the room. Hadn't it fallen on him – right on top of him? After it had… died, and knocked him out? He couldn't see it anywhere. There was only a rather beat up room, and – was it? – dust, all over the floor.

He glanced down at himself and wasn't surprised to see the pale grey dust on himself either. So that must be what happened to golems when they died. It made sense, anyway. Harry supposed that the best thing to do was to tell Dumbledore. Though he felt perfectly fine, and didn't think he was injured at all, the Order would have to know. Did Voldemort know where he lived? Next time he might get a worse Hex in the mail. Just this Summer he'd read about some terrible curses. _Avada Kedavra_ required close proximity, of course, but there were envelope spells that would cut off a limb, at least.

He walked over to his desk and was halfway through scribbling a note when he heard the voices. They were filtering up from downstairs. The man – no men, and women, for there were many of them – were too low to hear, but Aunt Petunia was clearly audible, her voice raised in anger. It wasn't often that the woman lost her temper in front of other people; she was always carefully reserved. In fact, and Harry froze as he thought it, the only people that she _would_ get mad in front of were him, the Dursleys, and wizards and witches.

Leaping to this conclusion, he hurried to his room's door, inched it open, and slunk as quietly as possible to where the staircase began. Here he could here everything clearly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Dumbledore, and perhaps some other members of the Order.

He prepared to dive downstairs, but stopped in curiosity, to listen to what Dumbledore was saying. After all, he'd just sent his letter last night, before the golem attacked him. So why were they coming to check on him so early, when they knew he was well?

"Yes, yes, of course." It was Aunt Petunia speaking.

"In the house?" asked Dumbledore.

"Last time I checked he was."

"And when was that?"

"How should I know? A couple of days ago? Th-Harry does as he likes. Rarely comes out of his room. I didn't see him come down for breakfast today, but then he could have got it early or later when I wasn't there. Why do you need to ask this? You can just go up and check."

Aunt Petunia was getting exasperated, Harry decided, and, considering, he didn't blame her.

"Tonks and Lupin will go up and check," said Dumbledore.

There was a moment's pause. Harry heard slow footsteps on the stairs directly below.

"Why are you so worried anyway," demanded Aunt Petunia. "You told me that – _he_ – couldn't get Harry when he was nearby me or Dudley. And he hasn't left the house all summer, except to do the garden. I think I would notice if – _someone_ – came and kidnapped him."

The cautious footsteps on the stairs were nearing the top.

"But Mrs. Dursley," explained Dumbledore kindly, "We are not so much worried about that as… you see, Harry might have left of his own accord… it would be dangerous for him."

"If he did, I'm not having him back…"

Harry stopped listening. Of his own accord? What did they mean?

But Tonks and Lupin arrived up the top of the stairs, and Harry was distracted.

"So much for stealth! I heard you coming a mile away," he greeted them.

"He's here!" shouted Tonks, a joyful expression on her face. Lupin's smile was somewhat weaker and when Harry met his eyes, he could see sorrow staring back at him.

Lupin rallied , however, and said, "So Harry, you don't have to stay here much longer. We've decided, if you want, to move you out."

"So let's pack your stuff," said Tonks, going ahead to his room, and swinging open the door with a spell.

"My gosh Harry! Have you really been living here all summer. There's quite a lot of dust don't you think?"

There was indeed.

"I guess I just shed a lot of skin last night," he said, seriously intending to use that as an excuse. When he saw how implausible it came out, he added, "but it might have something to do with, um, illegal manufacture of Floo Powder. Not saying it actually took place, but…"

He grinned.

Tonks beamed back, evidently convinced.

"I'll pack your stuff, right?"

Harry wondered why on earth he hadn't actually done what he'd been planning to up to a minute ago, and _told_ them about the golem. On impulse, he'd just kept them uninformed. Perhaps, though, it was better if they didn't know about the Killing Curse. Yes; that was it. And he hadn't been seriously hurt, anyway, so it wasn't as if the attack was _important_.

Harry stood back, and Lupin sidled closer to him as they watched Tonks get his things together

"So, coping?" Lupin said softly.

"Er, I suppose."

"Do you want to talk about it privately later?"

"I'm sorry. I don't…" Harry struggled for words. He didn't want to get sympathy from Lupin for something that wouldn't have happened if Harry hadn't been so stupid. For something which was his fault.

Lupin nodded and stepped away.

In a few minutes he was ready to leave. They came downstairs. Harry exchanged cordial, if slightly superficial greetings with Dumbledore and the other Order members congregated there.

"So," he finally thought of asking, "Where are we going? The Burrow? Hogwarts?"

"No, actually. We're keeping the same place as last year."

"I don't want to go back there. I'd rather stay here."

"Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger are there," said Dumbledore, and Harry's protests were smothered when Lupin, activating the Portkey, grabbed his arm.

Harry managed to stay upright as they arrived at Grimmauld Place, though not without grabbing onto Lupin's shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured apologetically, and turned to find –

"Ron! Hermione! How are you guys?"

"Happy to see you, mate."

"Fine, Harry."

They both watched him, noncommital expressions on their faces. It took Harry a second to realise why.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to blow my top like last year. It'd be selfish of me, getting upset about being _bored_, especially considering what everyone else is doing."

"Well, Harry, you did have a lot on your plate," said Ron. "No one could blame you."

Harry didn't reply, but followed Ron and Hermione up to where his room was. In the silence, Harry could tangibly _sense_ Ron reflecting nervously that, hey, maybe Harry had even more on his plate _this_ year, with a dead godfather and all.

"We get our own rooms now," Ron explained. "'Cause we've cleaned up most of the house now. I saved one for you."

As Harry looked puzzled, Ron continued, "You see, there's a lot more people staying here now. What with You-know-who coming out into the open… I mean, of course, there've been attacks and a lot more Death eater activities and that sort of thing. But the good thing is that there's plenty more people joining the Order… that's what Dad says anyway," he amended with a sour face. "They still won't let _us_ in the Order, seem perfectly fine with letting in Fred and George though. Can't see why; they're only a couple of years older than us."

Ron showed Harry into a brightly decorated yellow and blue room. In the middle of it was a bright green, bed-shaped _thing_.

"It's a self-making bed. Found it here and repaired it myself. See, you just say, 'Mungo Corners' and it makes itself. Mungo Corners!'

Nothing happened.

Ron went over to the bed, gave it a few kicks, and began to pummel one of the pillows.

Harry shrugged and turned to Hermione.

"So what's happened? I've looked in the Prophet but it seems like all rumours. I can't tell the difference between what's true and not, and after what they said last year…"

Hermione nodded.

"They tell us some things, especially Fred and George. One of the Ministry workers – a Mr. Scretin, I think – was outed as a spy for You-Know-Who. Before they could catch him he committed suicide… with a Devil's Trap. Oh, Harry, isn't that a hideous way to die? But Snape doesn't think it was suicide… Anyway, that was all hushed up by the Ministry. Oh – and Azkaban's under siege. Some of the Dementors have defected, and You-Know-Who's trying to come to terms with the rest of them. That's what we – well, the Order – think anyway. Imagine how terrible it would be, if the Dementors were on his side!"

Harry grimaced.

"So when did this happen?"

"Just in the past few days. And Fudge wants to summarily execute all the life-sentenced prisoners in Azkaban, but Dumbledore's put his foot down. The Ministry's trying to get help from overseas. Dumbledore thinks that Voldemort's going to gather as much support, from werewolves and so on, as possible before attacking. And apparently someone called Charles has gone missing, and it's really bad news. Have you heard of anyone called Charles, Harry?"

"I dunno. Prince of Wales?"

"No, no. Neville overheard McGonagall tell Lupin and they both looked very worried."

Harry was confused: "Neville?"

Ron, who had finally stopped hitting the pillow, said, "Oh yeah. He's here somewhere. He must be doing something, otherwise he'd probably have come to meet you. Ginny too," he added darkly. "As a matter of fact… no, this is Neville we're talking about… Anyway, Mungo Corners!"

The bed started to shake violently. This must have been what it was supposed to do, as Ron smiled smugly.

"So, Harry, it's about lunchtime, and I think we better eat it before anyone from the Order arrives. If you wait till after one, there's generally nothing left," Hermione explained.

After marching downstairs, and greeting Mrs. Weasley, who hugged Harry for about ten minutes before letting go, and expressed her regret that she couldn't have come to pick him up herself, they ate dinner.

Harry had eaten most of his mashed potatoes when Neville entered the room, followed a few seconds later by Ginny.

"Hello Neville," he said. "How come you're stuck in this place too?"

"Well… my grandmother pretty much insisted on it. After the Department of Mysteries I think she feels the Death Eaters have me number one on their hit list or – oh! Er, sorry Harry. But, yeah, that's why I'm here."

Harry felt the guilt surge up in him. Great, because of him, poor Neville, who hadn't done a thing wrong, couldn't spend his summer at home in safety –

"Though being here with you guys is better than being stuck at home helping my gran with her quilting."

It didn't make him feel any better. He'd almost gotten Neville killed. And the rest of them. Ginny, especially, whom he was even more responsible for, seeing as she was in the year below. Now she was laughing but she could have been –

Harry glanced up as he heard the kitchen door creak open. His gaze froze, and he felt his features harden to ice.

Scurrying dourly across the flagstone floor was Kreacher. The little malicious, repugnant, parasitic bundle of life itself. And if Harry had his way, it wouldn't remain a bundle of life much longer. Gripping his wand, not quite remembering when he'd grabbed it, Harry rose and advanced on the house elf.

He was suddenly aware that the room had taken on a tense silence. Everyone was looking at him, wondering what he would do. But he didn't care. The only thing going through his mind was burning hate. He'd promised himself, promised Sirius that he'd get his vengeance.

The House-elf didn't seem to notice him, and continued along, slowing down to sniff the freshly cooked food. It muttered to itself.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione nervously. "I forgot to tell you. Kreacher's still here."

"Why is he allowed to be here?" Harry demanded. "Why is he allowed to live?"

Ron shakily laughed. "Oh, trust me mate, you should've seen Lupin. Looked like he wanted to eat the little bugger."

Harry didn't respond.

"Well…" Hermione began, "when House-elves willingly aid and abet in a plot that leads to their master's death, sometimes there are spells, um, curses actually. So that if a House-elf does that they get cursed. Even if they do it unwittingly." (Hermione, who was beginning to stray onto familiar text book territory, became more confident.) "I read about it. It's an old Pureblood family tradition, so that their elf can't be used against them - without consequences anyway."

"Oh."

Harry didn't take his eyes off Kreacher, and raised his wand with an air of finality.

"Look," continued Hermione desperately. "It's cruel. Kreacher's insane now. He's just an empty husk. He never knew what he was doing, and if you hurt him now it won't mean anything. He's mad, he hardly knows where he is now. As soon as Sirius died, Kreacher lost his mind. I'm surprised Sirius let that curse continue on Kreacher, frankly. Treating house elves like they're inanimate objects is cruel."

Harry felt numb. He gave Hermione as cold a look as he could muster. She wilted under it, but he didn't let himself care. How dare she!

Neville, Ron, and Ginny, the others in the room, tried to stop him.

"Don't be stupid."

"What are you doing?"

"Do you want to be a murderer, Harry?"

"Murder?" His lips twitched. "What? This is simply garbage disposal."

"Harry, if you don't stop I'll curse you." Hermione had her wand raised and was eyeing him determinedly. "It's for your own good."

Harry lost it.

"For your own good? For your own good! How many times have I heard that from you, Hermione! You think you've got the moral high ground, so you can tell us what to do. For once could you stop being so bigheaded and righteous? Sirius is dead! Kreacher helped kill him. So could you stop trying to tell me right and wrong!"

"Harry, I-I care about you. That's the only reason. I don't want to see you do something you'll regret."

"Who do you think knows what's best for me? You or me myself! I think I know what I'll regret, and this isn't it! _Expelliarmus_!"

He focused his wand on Kreacher and snapped, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

But midway through his shout, someone burst through the kitchen door, and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

Before he could finish the spell, the wand was out of his hands. He glowered at Kreacher a second, then dived for him, clearly intending to strangle the elf with his bare hands.

Someone grabbed his shoulders, though, restraining him.

In his haze of fury Harry struggled and kicked against them. Their grip didn't lessen, however, but simply tightened even more.

In his ear, a cold voice said, "Haven't we had enough homicidal rage for one day?"

Upon hearing it, Harry, repressing an involuntary shudder, stopped struggling. It was Professor Snape, and Harry didn't like to think what he would do if Harry elbowed him or bit him, as he'd been contemplating.

"I see we're taking after our godfather, then," Snape said provokingly.

Harry elbowed him violently and spun around.

Snape simply smirked at him.

"Careful now, Potter."

Harry, finally realising he did not, in fact, have his wand, backed down, shrugging with false apathy. His vision seemed to instantly expand from the red haze that contained Kreacher, and he now saw the horrified expressions of the others in the room. Excepting Snape

Ron's mouth was hanging open, Hermione was sobbing quietly, Ginny was clutching Neville almost unconsciously. It was like Harry had _died_, not just attempted to kill a treacherous elf.

"Stop looking at your hero like he's the Dark Lord," said Snape contemptuously. "No doubt he wanted to destroy it, but he's no more capable of killing than a rabbit is."

"Then why did you disarm me like that? _Sir_?" demanded Harry.

Snape was tellingly silent for a moment, before saying, "Because, Potter, you needed to be put in your place."

"Well, give me back my wand now."

"Without a promise from you not to try any dark arts? I don't think so."

Harry was getting impatient. Hermione's wand, he knew, was lying on the ground a step behind and to the left. He spun round and grabbed it in a lightning fast movement. Panting, he raised the wand at Snape, whose lip was curling.

"You do know this is idiotic, Potter?"

Snape sighed.

"But I suppose this is some part of a vendetta against me, then? Want your revenge on me for killing your pet dog?"

Hermione's wand clattered to the floor. The kitchen door swung shut. Harry had left the room without so much as a word.

If he hadn't been so distressed, he would have been pleased at the second's shock on Snape's sallow face.

Harry was in his room two hours later. There had been a few knocks at the door, and a few appeals to be let in, but so far he had ignored them.

It was all his fault. He bore the responsibility for Sirius' death. Grief turned to self-loathing so strong it made him shake.

And here he was again, making more trouble! Trying to kill Kreacher, fighting with Snape… none of this would bring Sirius back. It probably wasn't even what he would have wanted anyway. He would have wanted Harry to keep going, to concentrate on defeating Voldemort.

Harry needed to stop wasting his time on pointless, selfish useless things. He needed to improve. He needed to make himself an actual threat to Voldemort, and stop living on luck.

He'd start studying – training – tomorrow. He wouldn't let anything get in his way. And he wouldn't apologise to Hermione either. She'd had it coming for years, thought Harry petulantly, and it was nothing more than the truth. If he bothered she'd just hinder him. He needed to forget any stupid ideas of revenge and focus on combating Voldemort.

All the same, Bellatrix L'Estrange had a horrible and excruciating death somewhere in her future.

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gratuituous use of Killing Curse, I know. 


	3. Chapter 3

After a while, Harry had to leave his room. Hunger and other urges forced him to. He had spent the whole afternoon inside, deaf to the pleas of Remus, Mr. Weasley, Ron, and Tonks, who had all waited up to half an hour each outside his door.

Harry was thankful there was no one watching his door when he came out. It made things easier. Maybe they'd understand that the best thing to do for him was to leave him alone?

Harry sighed as he padded down the corridor, wondering detachedly what the others thought. He didn't _dread_ the fall-out from his rage. The idea made him a little uncomfortable, but that was it.

In the past he would have dreaded it. He would have agonised over what he was going to say, how mortifying apologising would be. He would be afraid of how Dumbledore would look at him – he would fear facing Ron, Hermione, and everyone else.

He was convinced he didn't care this time. Indeed, he had no apprehension at all. If Dumbledore or anyone had a problem with what he had done – _tried_ to do, unfortunately – then _they_ would have to deal with it. Dumbledore knew as well as he did that he had to kill Voldemort – so why were they deceiving themselves about it? He had to kill someone eventually.

And as for Hermione – she was the one who had to apologise. Until then, to Harry at least, it wasn't over. But their friendship most certainly was.

Besides, he had another motive for not wanting to make up with Hermione and the others. It would be easier to do what he had to do without having friends – friends to put in risk like he had last time. Friends to prevent him, to prevent him from – anyway…

So he came down to breakfast in calm indifference. He noted the reactions of the others there with equal detachment. It wasn't him who had a problem; it was _them_. He wasn't deluding himself about Voldermort – he knew they were in a real war.

The reactions of the others were restrained.

Mrs Weasley beamed and said how glad she was to see him there.

"You're all right, aren't you Harry?" she asked.

"Fine."

Harry, answering similar inquiries of other Order members in the room with the same monosyllable, got his breakfast and sat down to eat it.

"Hey Harry," said Tonks, in a reattempt at conversation. "Hows it going?"

"Fine."

"Settled in all right, then? Have you tried the bed in there? Be careful, it'll try to eat you."

Ron joined in from the other side of the room. "Stop bringing that up. I fixed it."

"Just like you fixed that dresser on the third floor? Ginny told me it almost bit her hand off."

The conversation continued for a little while and then trailed off.

Harry was polishing off his toast when he saw Mr Weasley rise from the other side of the room. Anticipating another dull talk-to-Harry foray, Harry stood up to go.

He went straight to his room. Something Tonks had said had triggered a suspicion in his mind. He glanced up and down the room's wall, and found a very yellow bit of canvas stretched between a broken frame. He seized it and marched it out of the room.

'I'm sorry, but you'll have to spy on someone else," he muttered at the painting, hoping someone was listening. "I don't like it when my privacy's invaded."

"Then you're not going to have a very pleasant time of it," the painting hissed back.

Glancing down, Harry saw Phineas Nigellus, Sirius' godfather, patriach of Black house, and former Hogwarts headmaster.

"Oh really – how come?"

"Nothing, nothing, forget I said anything." The dark amusement glimmering in Phineas' eyes belied the denial in his words.

"Is someone watching me?"

"Oh, _no_, you young fool. My eyes are merely _pointing_ in your direction."

"I mean physically? Or are there other bugging spells? An Animagus? Is there a _tracking_ spell on me?"

Phineas pinched his lips together.

"I can't tell you that much. But if you can't work it out you deserve it."

Harry dumped the picture in a disused bathroom, and asked Phineas to be patient.

"Oh I won't. I can visit every painting in this building."

But Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak after that and looked for the library. He knew of its existence somewhere on the top floor.

It actually took up about three quarters of the said floor, so it was not hard to discover. Harry went in, and was disappointed to find an annoying dearth of dark arts books. At first he went by titles. But after seeing a book on The Benefits of Magical Bonsai, he changed tact. He opened the book, mostly because of its incongruity in the Black ancestral home, and discovered that it was really a tract on Blood Magic. His search became more profitable after that, for all that he had to select books randomly.

He had selected a particularly promising book on curses when he heard voices approaching. Without thinking he shrouded himself completely with his Invisibility Cloak and halted. To his disapprobation, the people did not go away but came closer, and eventually entered the library.

It was Ron and Hermione. They seated themselves on leather chairs at a desk a scant metre from Harry and commenced talking. Harry, afraid to make a noise, had no choice but to wait and listen. The conversation was about him.

"I'm just so worried about Harry. Ron, is he all right? What does he think?"

Harry waited expectantly for Ron to tell her what Harry had asked him to.

"I -," (Ron uncharacteristically sighed), "it's hard, you know. He needs support but he doesn't want it from anyone. He won't be talked to."

"But what should I do?"

"There's nothing. He – he said he doesn't want to talk to you again."

Harry felt empty satisfaction.

"He's always been stubborn, pig-headed sometimes. But – Ron, he's acting differently now. I actually think he's capable of – I mean, I don't know _what_ he's capable of."

Different? Different?

Harry wasn't sure why he was so angry at her words, why they drove into his heart. It seemed then, to him, that if she thought he had changed, then she had never known him in the first place. It was too bad –

"At least I have you Ron," Hermione said tentatively.

This drew Harry back from his thoughts immediately. What was this?

"I – I – um, er -." Ron stammered.

There was an extended silence and Harry wondered if they were kissing.

He had always known, in the back of his mind, that they would end up together, though he had never really properly considered it. Ron and Hermione. Together in another way.

Well, good for them, then. At least they had something to take their minds off things. And he'd be left alone for once.

But if it was so good, why did he feel so lonely? So wretchedly cold?

That evening, Harry managed to remove the Tracking Charm that someone had put on him while his back was turned. He had to read his Charms Textbook for about half an hour before he figured out how to do it, but he did a good job of it, transferring the Charm to one of socks instead of his person.

He looked at the Dark Arts book. It wasn't that arcane, in the end, the curses in it were just a little nastier and more effective than the usual type. Harry wondered what the Dark Arts where really about – not the killing and hurting people part, of course, not the whole Power thing – but, what was a Dark wizard? Did it have anything to do with a type of magic, or just actions?

When he stopped, it was late at night.

The lonely silence in the bedroom reminded Harry of his room at the Dursley's. He fell to wondering. What _had_ Dumbledore meant, 'of his own accord'? Why would Harry just go off on his own when he _knew_ Voldemort was after him? When he knew about the prophecy?

Wait – that was it. That was why Dumbledore was so anxious – yet not anxious enough to suspect some sort of death eater kidnapping. They thought he had _run away_. They thought that he was some kind of coward. Dumbledore believed Harry all too capable of balking in the face of the responsibility the prophecy had placed on him.

He'd probably been fearing it all summer – Harry running off into the blue, abandoning his friends… is that what Dumbledore thought he was? Were those his expectations?

Harry's intestines knotted. And those notes – every 3 days – he thought they were finally making an effort to prevent the Dursley's making his life hell – but no. The letters were simply a form of surveillance, a check-up – not just that Harry was all right, but that he hadn't fled.

Dumbledore had so little faith in Harry, who had once placed so much faith in him. There were goosebumps all over Harry's skin, and it was 2 o'clock in the morning.

He had an idea. It was part revenge, part confirmation of his suspicions about Dumbledore and the others. He'd let them think that he'd slipped out to London, that he'd run away. Once they'd been given a scare, he could just pop out of a cupboard, or the cellar, and ask them what exactly they thought he'd done. That would serve them right for not telling him, for their distrust, for treating him like an unpredictable tool.

Harry silently exited his room and crept down the stairs. Half-way down he heard a cracking noise, like a floorboard creaking somewhere. He froze. The cracking sound came again. Again he waited, but this time there were no more sounds, so he finished his descent. He strode along the hallway, careful not to disturb the portrait of Mrs Black, then pulled open the door of a cleaning closet near the front door, and stepped inside.

He shut the door and was on the brink of relaxing in, when he had second thoughts. Perhaps – was acting like this wrong? The Order, the Weasleys – they would be extremely worried. Putting them through that stress, letting them think the worst, that was a rather Slytherin thing to do. Hesitating, wondering if the motivation was good enough, he kept his hand on the doorhandle inside the cupboard.

He never had a chance to decide because voices soon disturbed his thoughts. He gave up his internal debate and listened. Perhaps it was secret Order business.

'Are you ready?'

There was a murmur of voices responding in the affirmative.

'You know what the plan is? Take Potter alive and kill as many of the others as we can.'

Harry's eyes widened, though he couldn't see a thing in the darkened cupboard. Death Eaters? Here? They sounded barely metres away, most likely – yes – on the other side of the door. Before Harry had a chance to leave the cupboard, before the seriousness of the situation had even dawned on him, the front door of Grimmauld Place creaked open.

Harry heard many feet rush past. If not for the wood of the door, he could have reached out and touched the Death Eaters streaming into the house. The Death Eaters were making an effort at stealth, but he could hear them easily. A moment later there was a crash and a loud ringing sound. One of them had triggered an Alarm Spell.

'You clumsy fool Snape,' someone hissed, but by then it was too late.

Shouting drifted down from the first storey, running feet sounded on the floorboards above. The Order had been alerted. Harry thought of going to help them, then quickly discarded this idea. He knew what the Death Eater's plan was, he did _not_ want to be captured, and he knew that any attempt to help would be foolish and futile. There were too many Death Eaters.

So he stood in the cupboard, wincing every time he heard a Death Eater release an Unforgivable, and hoping that his friends were all right.

The sound of fighting increased, and a sense of chaos pervaded the house. There were screams, shouting, and occasional bangs and crashes as a curse missed its mark.

'Find him! He must be hiding here somewhere. He can't have gotten out so soon. Try every door. Potter is here! Find him.'

Harry gripped his wand tighter. As he heard doors open and close. Harry heard the strident voice of Mrs Black; someone had pulled back the curtains. There were footsteps, very close. Harry raised his wand. His breathing was very shallow, and it sounded impossibly loud and harsh in his ears.

Horribly, slowly, the doorknob turned. The door whipped open surprisingly fast, and for a moment all Harry was able to do was stare at the Death Eater before him. Harry pointed his wand at the man.

'If you say anything, I'll kill you,' he whispered, knowing that ultimately his threat was no use. He would be discovered.

But the Death Eater simply narrowed his eyes and watched him a second before shutting the door.

'Nothing here,' he said.

The Death Eater was Snape. Harry recognised the voice, and his black eyes had been familiar. What were the chances, he wondered, that it was Snape? What were the chances that Snape was actually on Dumbledore's side? He'd never believed it until now. He thanked his stars for his luck and waited in silence in the cupboard.

The sounds of fighting died down. The Death Eaters reassembled in the hallway.

'Potter must have escaped, like the others have. He was probably the first to go.'

The leader sounded disappointed, there was a note of desperation in his voice. Harry was not surprised; Voldemort would not be happy to hear that he had got away.

'Burn the house all the same,' he said. 'Just in case he is here.'

The Death Eaters filed out. Twenty voices chanted 'Incendio' and Harry felt suddenly a bit too warm and cosy in his cupboard.

br 

nb: obviously snape is good in this fic (and in canon too. I hope. Despite all.)

In relation to out of school magic – well they're at Grimmauld Place. Not even the Ministry can detect it. I assume they can't detect magic use there either.

This story is so out of date. Sigh. It is AU, not taking account of Half Blood Prince at all.


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